Noli Me Tangere
by Daurmith
Summary: Chatsworth makes a mistake while still under Sir Boniface's command, and Phileas is sent to correct it. What happens next will have important consequences for both men and will mark forever their relationship.
1. Chapter 1

Noli Me Tangere

_This story is for Loralee Thompson, "Danaan"_

Prologue

The silence in the office was broken only by the scratching of a pen over paper and the hollow tick tock of an antique clock. Through the window came the grey light of a London spring day, slightly tinged by the metallic hue of a faint mist.

A soft knock on the door made the writer pause in his work.

"Come in," he said, carefully setting the pen on its holder and reviewing the few last lines he'd written. The door opened; a middle-aged man dressed in black stood respectfully on the threshold.

"Yes, Phelps," the old man at the desk said.

"Agent Fogg to see you, sir."

"Show him in."

The middle-aged man stood aside and bowed slightly to someone in the antechamber. The someone came into the room in two long strides, and the door closed softly behind him.

He was a young man, quite tall, with a handsome, intense face and a lean yet muscular body, admirably proportioned. He stood still for a second, as the man behind the desk stood up and went towards him.

"Phileas. Welcome back," the old man said, and they shook hands.

"Thank you, sir. I trust I find you in good health?" Phileas said, smiling at his father.

"Quite. How was your trip?" Sir Boniface Fogg approached small talk the same way as he approached business: he gave as little information as possible while trying to gather as much as he could from the other party. The other party in this case being his eldest son, who sighed almost imperceptibly.

"Uncomfortable, but fast," he said. "The smugglers have been dealt with, and there's no danger anymore of Scottish radicals getting firearms. Also, the main group has been dismantled and I've left precise instructions regarding how to deal with the rest of them. You'll get my report presently."

"Very well. I'll study it later. As for now, Phileas, I called you here because…"

"May I ask first about my brother, sir?" Phileas interrupted. Sir Boniface seemed a bit put out, but answered the question nevertheless.

"Erasmus returned from Calcutta two days ago, after completing his mission successfully. I gave him a week's leave, which he has chosen to spend at Shillingworth Magna," he said in precise, clipped tones, much as if he was reading from a report.

"Ah." The tension left Phileas's body, a tension that had been so carefully concealed that you could only tell that it had been there after you'd seen it gone. "I'm glad to hear it. Perhaps I shall join him."

"I'm afraid you won't," Sir Boniface said dryly, returning to his desk and sitting down.

"Sir?"

"Your presence is urgently required at Turin, Phileas. You will have to leave immediately, I'm afraid."

Phileas sighed inwardly. He was tired. He had been looking forward to some days of leisure, after two exhausting and extraordinarily uncomfortable weeks spent chasing radicals in the Scottish Highlands. He waited for his father to elaborate, suddenly too weary to ask for the details himself.

"Are you familiar with the Orsini documents?" Sir Boniface asked, and Phileas came back from his gloomy frame of mind with a start.

"Certainly, sir. They are the coded messages exchanged between some followers of King Victor Manuel and the German government. They could contain invaluable information about Italy's choice of allies once the country achieves some kind of political stability. One of our agents intercepted them a month ago, and they have already been partially decoded."

"Precisely. Our man cannot leave Italy now without compromising his position there, so I sent Chatsworth to Turin to bring the documents here."

"Chatsworth?" Phileas voice rose in surprise, and his father scowled.

"Yes, I know. He has no field experience whatsoever. But he is familiar with every aspect of the documents, he is good with codes, and the mission was as straightforward as it could be."

"What went wrong, sir?" asked Phileas, alerted by that 'was' and by his father's scowl.

"_Chatsworth_ went wrong. The twit. He managed to lose the documents."

"What!?"

"That's what his cable said. At least, that is what it amounted to, after peeling off all the excuses and self-justifications. My guess is that they've been stolen. I want an experienced agent there right away."

Phileas nodded, sending all thoughts of home and rest to the back of his mind. Getting the Orsini documents had been an extraordinary stroke of luck, and losing them in such a stupid manner was unacceptable.

"So, you see the need to get there and straighten up this matter as quickly as possible. And I'd prefer it to be you over anybody else; the situation is volatile enough as it is."

"I understand," Phileas said, weakly. On one hand, he was obscurely flattered by his father's trust in him. Boniface was not a man to give praise easily. On the other hand, Sir Boniface's trust normally meant he'd give you the hardest, most dangerous missions.

"I knew you would," his father said, and gave him a fat envelope. "You'll need this. A carriage waits for you downstairs."

"What, I leave right now?" The words blurted out, before Phileas could stop himself. Sir Boniface shot him a very stern glance.

"When I said 'immediately', Phileas, I meant exactly that. Unless you tell me you are not prepared for this."

Phileas took a deep breath.

"I apologize, sir. I will leave this very moment."

"Good. I expect you to take care of this with the minimum fuss, Phileas."

"I will try my best."

Sir Boniface didn't smile.

"You will _do_ your best. Goodbye, now."

"Goodbye, sir."

Phileas closed the door behind him. After a moment, the soft scratching sound of the pen joined again the tick tock of the clock in the quiet office.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

Chatsworth peered nervously through his hotel room's curtains, starting each time a cab stopped by the front door of the hotel. His cable had received a unnervingly prompt and terse answer: "_Wait at your hotel. An agent has been sent to deal with the matter_". He had been waiting, too afraid to come out of his room, and his nervous tension had scaled to a point in which he yelped every time a maid came into the room. He rehearsed speeches in his mind, he wrote dozens of pages of a possible future report, trying his best to put the matter in a somewhat less catastrophic scale and failing singularly; he paced and sat and didn't really sleep; he ate a lot, without pleasure. His only comfort was that, so far, no one seemed to have taken advantage of the Orsini papers. There was no sign whatsoever that any foreign government had them in their power. Of course, this was only a comfort as long as you didn't think that they could be biding their time, to use the documents in the most damaging way possible to England's interests.

Lost in his panicky reverie, Chatsworth almost missed the arrival of a very muddy carriage, pulled by two bay horses that seemed ready to drop dead on the spot. When he looked, the porter was opening the door of the carriage, and a man dressed in sober black stepped out. Chatsworth recognized him at once and gritted his teeth in chagrin. No doubt this was the first part of his punishment.

Phileas Fogg.

Chatsworth had never liked him, with his good looks, and his Savile Row suits, and his insolent demeanor. He had been given all the opportunities Chatsworth never had, and if he was a successful agent, it was because Sir Boniface had been behind him every step of the way. The fact that Sir Boniface had sent _him_, of all people, was both a warning and an insult, and as Chatsworth went downstairs to greet him he fought hard to hide the rage and shame he was feeling.

"Fogg. Welcome to Turin," he said, shaking his hand. He was slightly pleased to see that Fogg looked far from his usual neat self. His clothes were rumpled and covered in road dust, and his face was haggard and lined with weariness. But his movements were as crisp and elegant as ever, and even as he shook his hand Chatsworth could see those green penetrating eyes piercing him in the most disquieting manner.

"Thank you, Chatsworth. Excuse me while I arrange my accommodation. I would like to talk with you as soon as possible, though. May I call upon your room at the earliest possible moment?"

"Yes, of course. By all means. I'll, I'll wait for you there."

Fogg answered with a brief smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and Chatsworth hurried back to his room feeling like a schoolboy summoned to the Dean's office.

Less than an hour later Fogg showed up in Chatsworth's room, dressed in an exquisite gray suit, and pristine in every detail of his attire and his person. Only the dark shadows under his eyes betrayed the long hurried voyage that had brought him there in such a short time. But the eyes themselves looked as insightful and alert as Sir Boniface's, and Chatsworth tried to hide his nervousness.

A drink was offered and refused, and, without waiting for an invitation, Fogg sat down on a chair with his back to the window, crossed his long legs, and interlaced his fingers, elbows on the padded armrests. This left Chatsworth no option but a low settee into which he folded himself awkwardly.

"Now," Fogg said, abruptly, "tell me everything."

Chatsworth did. How he had been sent to rendezvous with their agent in a small village near Turin. How the meeting had taken place without any problem. How he had received the Orsini documents, which he had recognized as real and not a forgery. How he had returned to Turin, to wait there for the arrangements of his trip home to be made. And how, after returning to his room after an evening out, he had found the documents gone.

"Nothing had been disturbed. I kept the documents in a locked drawer, and there were no signs of the lock being picked. Nothing else was missing," Chatsworth said, recalling his frantic search of the room, his enraged requests that the hotel service personnel be searched too, his almost incoherent explanation to the manager that some very important items had been stolen from his room. The fact that he couldn't really elaborate on the nature of the items, or give an accurate description, caused the search to be abandoned pretty soon and the hotel staff to look upon Chatsworth with a certain wariness.

Fogg listened to all this without moving a muscle.

"You didn't keep the documents with you at all times," he stated, in a carefully neutral tone.

"N-no. I was afraid I could be mugged while I was about town. This isn't England, after all…" Chatsworth let the sentence die feebly under the cold scrutiny of Fogg's eyes.

"And why," Fogg asked, still in that soft, controlled voice, "were you about town, pray?"

"Well," Chatsworth swallowed nervously, "there was this lady…"

"Ah."

It was a wonderfully expressive "Ah". It was an "Ah" in which Fogg quite neatly summarized the opinion he had of Chatsworth as an agent, and as a man. Fogg shifted his posture ever so slightly as he uttered it; he jerked his chin up, and although his face was shadowed by the light coming from behind him, Chatsworth could have sworn that one sardonic eyebrow was up. He felt the blood rushing to his face.

"Dammit, Fogg, it was nothing like that. She's a true lady, and I couldn't possibly refuse her invitation."

"The name of this true lady?"

"Donna Maddalena Vulpe," Chatsworth said through clenched teeth. Fogg put a thoughtful index to his lips.

"I've heard of her," he murmured.

"Half of Europe has heard of her," Chatsworth said, and his annoyance left him momentarily as he recalled that amazing evening. "Her gatherings are the most fashionable and prestigious in the whole country. I considered it an honor to have been invited to her house."

"An honor indeed. Didn't you wonder at why did she invite you?"

"I… No! Are you implying that I'm not good enough for her company, Fogg?" Chatsworth's face was crimson now, and he made as if to rise from his seat. Fogg held up a placating hand.

"I'm merely saying, Chatsworth, that it strikes me as odd that she should invite you, a man she didn't even know."

"She… We have common friends. Maybe she had heard of me and… Good Heavens, Fogg, you don't think she had anything to do with this, do you?"

Fogg sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing it gently. He muttered something under his breath that Chatsworth didn't quite understand.

"I don't know," Fogg said finally. "So far she seems our only lead, though."

"Well, I think I can arrange for you to be introduced to her."

"That won't be necessary," Fogg said, rising in one smooth movement. "I'll make my own arrangements. Now I'd like you to show me where the documents were kept."

"Of course, but… Fogg, you don't really think that she… They must have taken advantage of my absence, that's all," Chatsworth said, getting up himself after a couple of failed attempts.

"A most convenient absence. But, as I said, I don't know. I'm merely considering all possibilities."

Fogg's voice was adequately noncommittal, and Chatsworth didn't have the nerve to press the issue. He led Fogg to where the documents had been kept.

"Very clean job," Fogg commented when he finished his exam of the little desk.

"Yes, I thought so too," Chatsworth said. Strangely enough, he was beginning to feel distinctly calmer. Fogg's presence, infuriating as it was, meant that he wasn't alone anymore to deal with this awful deed. "What… what should I do?"

"Nothing," Fogg said, curtly. "Not until I get a clearer idea of what's going on. Which should be tomorrow, I think. Just wait for my news."

Though Chatsworth was quite sure that the calm, clear voice hid worlds of contempt for his role in this affair, he was slightly reassured to realize that Fogg hadn't been sent just to kick him out of the country. He was being given a chance to restore at least part of his lost dignity.

"Very well," he said. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to rule out some possibilities," Fogg said, and went towards the door with a long, elastic stride that belied any trace of exhaustion. He paused suddenly, with his hand already on the door handle, and turned to Chatsworth.

"I wouldn't leave the hotel if I were you," he said, "and I would consider moving to a room in an upper floor, one without a balcony. You've already seen the documents. You should assume that whoever did this might decide that letting you get back to England alive is not worth the risk."

And with this ominous warning, Fogg left the room, leaving Chatsworth gaping and shaky.

Phileas went around the hotel, studying carefully the elegant façade under Chatsworth's balcony. He didn't find any traces of climbing, but stone and marble are extremely poor keepers of tracks, and in any case he was already more than half convinced that the documents had been stolen by means of an accomplice who already had free access to the room. The drawer's lock hadn't even been picked; and it would be foolish to think that people who had a key to a drawer wouldn't also have a key to a door.

So… What next?

Phileas stood for a moment on the street, leaning nonchalantly on his cane and biting his lower lip in concentration. Of course, Chatsworth, that pompous ass, wouldn't think it strange that an intelligent, notorious and beautiful woman like Donna Maddalena would be interested in him. But Phileas thought it was extremely unusual, bordering on impossible.

The fact that the robbery had not already exploded in the face of the British Secret Service meant probably that the thieves were bidding their time, waiting either for a good offer, or for the right opportunity to put the documents to use. But time was running out, and it was imperative that the investigation went from defensive to offensive.

He would take the only thread he had so far and go visit Donna Maddalena. His friend Giacomo should be able to introduce him this very evening, if he could contact him on time.

Phileas took a deep breath, and with a muttered "Right then" walked briskly, swinging his cane, back into the hotel.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Two

"You really don't waste any time, Phileas," Giacomo Chiarante said, bemused, as the two of them rode a cab to Donna Vulpe's _palazzo_. "You've been in Turin, what, less than a day? And already you want to meet her."

"Well, I've heard so much about her, I simply had to see if the rumors were true," Phileas said.

"Oh, they are true. And maybe more. She's stunning."

"'Stunning'. That's an unusual choice of word. I would expect 'beautiful', or 'enchanting', or even, God help us, 'stylish'," Phileas said airily, and Giacomo laughed.

"That's normally the case, but… It's different for her. I'd rather not explain; you'll see for yourself," Giacomo made a pause and then said, still smiling, "I'm actually glad you asked for my help; I may be on my way to see Phileas Fogg utterly knocked over by a woman for the first time."

They both laughed.

The Palazzo Vulpe was in reality an old hotel, refurbished as a mansion, but still retaining a vague air of grandeur and aloofness that made it a welcoming place only to people who didn't really intend to stay. The main hall had some excellent frescoes of Biblical scenes, all of them showing maybe a bit too much flesh for English tastes; even then, Phileas could not but admire the technique and beauty of the work.

A butler dressed in an old-fashioned suit received them and took their cards in a silver tray. They waited briefly in an antechamber covered in antique oil paintings, and suddenly the door at the other end opened and a cascade of warm scented air, music, and voices reached them.

The scene was slightly puzzling, at first. English parties were generally stuffy affairs, full of old people sitting or standing in groups, looking at each other and not talking, while some anemic couples danced watered-down waltzes with all the grace and animation of a flock of penguins.

This couldn't be more different. The room was long and narrow, draped in red curtains and sparkling with dozens of lamps and candelabra; there were plenty of little nooks and crannies in which there was an astounding variety of chairs, loveseats, little tables, settees, armchairs and sofas. Apparently most of them were occupied by mixed groups of people, all of them talking animatedly at the same time. The music of a dozen languages flowed from all corners, mixed with the heady scent of some kind of incense and the tingling, haunting notes of a harpsichord that poured the bubbling arpeggios of some Baroque piece from a corner at the far end of the room. A shrill peal of laughter from time to time told the newcomers that the conversations were probably about some not very proper subjects.

"So," Phileas said as they both dodged tipsy guests, "where is the famous beauty?"

"There," Giacomo said, and pointed to the end of the long room, where there was a small alcove brightly lit by yet more lamps and prettily decorated in rich fabrics of pale, subtle hues. The alcove had in its center a small but excellent harpsichord, currently surrounded by a group of elegant young men, all of them bowed in admiration towards the pianist, a red-headed woman dressed in a silk dress.

"Ah," said Phileas, and then he repeated, in a sort of soft purr, "Ah."

The woman's hair was of the most striking and rich deep red color imaginable, beautifully set up by her pale, perfect skin. The profile that Phileas was admiring had a classical beauty that would have been maybe too classical if not for the line of her long, dark eyebrows, under which two lively eyes sparkled with joy and intelligence. Then she turned her head, and Phileas wondered how could he ever had considered her beauty less than astounding. Something about her movements, some elastic, fierce grace, made every fiber in his body twinge and resonate. Her dark eyes glinted with a deep golden color, like hot honey, like dark amber, so full of life and, yes, hunger, that for a moment Phileas forgot to breathe.

"Phileas?" There was laughter in Giacomo voice, and Phileas realized that he had just stopped walking. He blinked and shook his head. A now laughing Giacomo guided him to the alcove, and the lady saw them and rose to greet them.

"Giacomo, how wonderful to see you!" Maddalena said, and her voice was rich and clear, like champagne. Giacomo bowed over her hand.

"I wouldn't have missed this for the world, Maddalena," he said. "Allow me to introduce to you my very good friend, Phileas Fogg of London. Phileas, Donna Maddalena Vulpe."

"Mister Fogg," Maddalena said, switching from Italian to flawless English, and offering him her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure, Donna Maddalena," he said, lingering a bit over her hand, eyes alight with anticipation, "is all mine."

Leaving the harpsichord and her little retinue behind, Maddalena offered them drinks and talked, volubly and charmingly, while Phileas sipped a fragrant vintage of _Lacchrima Christi_ wine and studied her discretely. An accomplished hostess, no doubt, whose intense beauty, equivocal reputation, and brilliant personality had brought her fame well beyond the borders of the city of Turin. Her guests were mainly young people, but Phileas had seen some elder gentlemen whose manner of dress and demeanor suggested power, or riches, or both. If that was the case, Donna Maddalena was surely more intelligent than her years and her social status would suggest. Had one of these guests brought Chatsworth here? Phileas wished that he had had more time to study the concurrence; maybe he'd see some familiar faces that would give his vague suspicions a definite direction.

There was a way to accomplish this. Phileas waited for the appropriate moment in the conversation.

"You have a lovely house, Donna Maddalena," he said. "The frescoes in the hall are extremely beautiful."

Maddalena smiled. Phileas noticed her dimples, the way her eyes shone.

"Are you an art lover, Mister Fogg?"

"I revere beauty," he said softly, with a very slight bow in her direction. Maddalena's smile widened.

"Allow me to show you the rest of my possessions, then," she said, threading her arm into his.

They walked down the length of the room again, and Phileas fought to make out some faces in the dim lights. One second later, he was cursing under his breath and regretting his decision.

There was Grotz. And Van der Veldt. And Colosimo. And, God help us, even Matreuil, seventy-year-old Matreuil, all red and sweaty, drinking and laughing. Matreuil, who had sold French state secrets to the English, English state secrets to the Germans, German state secrets to everybody else, and had somehow managed to get out of it alive and rich. And Grotz, whose ruthless use of information and people had fueled no less than three wars in areas of Africa and India, and he had profited twice from each because he had sold weapons to both sides in every case. Colosimo and Van der Veldt were minor league, enemy agents with a certain status, but dangerous nevertheless because both were known for their willingness to use violence. Had any of them recognized him, taken notice of him? Only Grotz knew his face, and he seemed to be quite engrossed in conversation with a very beautiful young man. Nevertheless, Phileas maneuvered to avoid being seen by the squat, powerful Austrian weapon-trader and fought not to let his dismay and unease show.

Maddalena squeezed his arm.

"That's not very polite of you, Mister Fogg," she said, "letting your attention wander from your lady."

"I beg a thousand pardons, madame," Fogg said immediately, turning towards her and smiling with all his charm. "But do your words mean that, to my infinite fortune, I am to consider you my lady?"

Her eyes glinted with amusement.

"One never knows, Mister Fogg — One never knows."

They walked out of the room and Maddalena guided Fogg through the oil paintings of the antechamber and the frescoes of the main hall, and then she went resolutely towards the stairs. Phileas, considerably calmer now, and going through the implications of the presence of all these men in Maddalena's house, followed her with an inward smile: he was fairly sure that they were going exactly where he wanted to go.

"You have indeed a good eye for beauty, Mister Fogg," Maddalena said. "Let me show you something else."

She took his hand playfully, and he let himself be guided upstairs to a somewhat damaged balcony that went all around the house. There were more paintings there, faded and darkened oils, some of them quite valuable, but Maddalena passed by them and stopped in front of a double door, which she opened theatrically.

Phileas blinked in the dark, cool space. His first impression was that he had been thrown into an aquarium. Then his eyes adjusted to the dimness and he found himself in a huge room. The high walls were stuccoed in a shade of green that had been the cause of his confusion. The paint was discolored in places, and darkened in others, creating an unintentional but strikingly effective illusion of an underwater grotto. A small screened oil lamp on a low table added to the effect, casting a silver-green light that was barely enough to distinguish the shape of objects.

Maddalena took a step into the room. In the cool green shadows, her red hair and her ivory skin looked twice as warm, seeming to glow from within. Her hand, still holding his, pulled him gently inside and then left him in a pool of darkness while she rustled further inside. A moment later, gas lights turned the shadows into colors, and Phileas blinked again.

It was a bedroom. Clearly it had not been designed as such at first. Maybe it had been a receiving room or a large studio, but now, a big canopied bed occupied the center of a somewhat faded carpet. Large and heavily decorated furniture in the Empire style squatted unflatteringly against two of the walls, and a door at the far end led -presumably- to a wardrobe or a bathroom. The huge expanse of floor was mostly bare –no chairs, no settees, no tea tables; only an oversized night table by the side of the bed. The sensation was somewhat dismal, as if the room had seen better times but had been now stripped of all the markings of a past glory. The walls added to the effect, Phileas saw immediately. Not only the paint bore all the marks of age and disuse, but several rectangular discolorations spoke of frames that were no longer there. There remained, however, some more oil paintings, exceptionally well-crafted, and delightful little pieces from Italian and Dutch masters. Maddalena pointed to these as she went back to him.

"See?," she said, almost in a whisper. "I'm a wicked woman. I keep the best for myself."

"To me that shows excellent taste, _madonna_," Phileas said. The compliment fell a bit flat, but he was still surprised by the otherworldly feeling of the room. Maddalena giggled prettily and pointed to some of her favorite paintings, which were, Phileas recognized, excellent. They made a weird contrast with the rest of the room.

"Is your love for these magnificent paintings so great that you would not bear to be separated from them for any sum of money, Donna Maddalena?" he asked with genuine curiosity. She did not strike him as an art collector.

Her answer took some seconds to arrive; she watched him the while with a curiously penetrating gaze.

"This room looks exactly as I want it to look, Mister Fogg," she answered, and he thought she had avoided the question, until he realized that she had, in fact, answered the question he hadn't dared to ask. "I would not put a single lyre into changing a flake of paint here. It's my refuge, my sanctuary. As for the paintings—," she bit her lip for a second, in a very endearing gesture, "I love them all. But if I had to, I'd see them all go without a blink. Except this one."

Again her had gripped his, and again he let himself be guided through the empty floor to the wall directly opposite the gargantuan bed. An enormous canvas hung there, framed in gilded wood and strategically lighted to show it to its best.

"This one," Maddalena said, reverently. "I would never part with this one."

His curiosity piqued, Phileas studied the painting. It was a last-century-style Biblical theme, extremely well done. The original colors had been light and cheery, as was the Italian style, but time had given them a dark patina that had actually made them astoundingly life-like. The composition was simple and quite unorthodox: at the edge of a deep ravine, and against a very realistic Mediterranean forest, there were a man and a woman.

It was the woman that first caught Phileas's attention. Dark-haired and graceful, her face was not the classical, bland beauty that was common in this kind of painting. She was leaning towards the man, her arms outstretched in entreaty or pleading, her face caught in a rapt expression that was at the same time ecstatic and tormented.

The man was rejecting her with a hand; his expression was stern, almost stony, but for the fire in his large amber eyes. His was a handsome face, bearded and aquiline, but so alive and intense that it took Phileas a while to recognize the man, and the scene depicted in the painting.

The man was Jesus Christ; the woman, Mary Magdalene, seeing him after his Resurrection and rejected by him when she called him. If not for the flowing robes of the characters, and the subtle _sfumato_ surrounding Jesus's body like an aura, the Biblical theme would have been unrecognizable. Christ's hands bore no wounds, and Mary's robes, though worn and frayed, were not the rags she was usually depicted wearing. Her head was held proudly, her arms were taut and alive with movement, and although overwhelmed by what she was seeing, the painter had managed to convey masterfully that she was a real, strong, passionate woman.

There was an air of wholeness, of perfection, completely mesmerizing about the oil. The landscape had been painted lovingly and with care, not as a simple backdrop for the figures, and Phileas found himself impressed, despite his intention of not showing more than a passing, slightly foppish interest in the art shown to him.

"Yes," Maddalena muttered by his ear, startling him. "Yes, you can see it, can you not?"

"It is a wonderful painting," he said, but his voice was husky and did not sound as casual as he would have liked.

"You can see it," she repeated, smugly, squeezing his arm. "Do you recognize the scene?"

"Yes," he said.

"_Dicit ei Iesus noli me tangere_," she quoted, in Latin. He recognized the passage.

"John 20:17," he replied. "_Jesus saith unto her, Touch me not._"

"Very good, Mister Fogg," she said, amused complacency in her rich voice. "I was not expecting such knowledge from an Englishman. You are a man of unsuspected depths."

"And you, Donna Maddalena," he said, truthfully, "are an utterly amazing woman."

"As was she," she said, turning towards the painting. "Look at her. Look at her joyful face, how it changes into shock. He rejects her, he doesn't want her. Her Lord, her master, her dear teacher, and he sends her away. Touch me not. _Noli me tangere_. You are not good enough." Maddalena's voice was hoarse and passionate, and she looked like she had forgotten that Phileas was there. He reminded her of his presence by covering her hand with his, and she returned to the present with a start.

"I feel privileged, _madonna_," he said, softly, "to have been let into a place that you hold so dear."

"I am sure you are worthy of it," she said, turning her face towards his and smiling. Phileas returned the smile involuntarily; he had passed some kind of test. He was in a game, beyond a doubt, but who was the player, and who was being played?, he asked himself, not without trepidation. The light made her dark eyes shine like a moonlit lake, and Phileas found himself forgetting Grotz, Matreuil, and all their grim cohorts, and pulled her hand to his lips, not actually kissing it. The game was always worth it; and the stakes were now much more interesting.

"I fear it is too great a reward for a man like me," he whispered, caressing her fingers with his breath, and kissing them as lightly as a butterfly. He released her then, but her hand, lingering a moment against his lips, traveled towards his cheekbone, circled his ear, and caressed the side of his neck, leaving a fiery wake on Phileas's skin. He turned his face towards the moving fingers, which rose again to trace the shape of his lips slowly, carefully, as if painting them anew. And at the same time he felt the warmth of her body as she pressed herself against him with a soft silken rustle. Her scent was like a forest in autumn, like burning wood, like a fever, and he embraced the whole wonderful complexity of her.

"The reward," she breathed into his descending mouth, "will fit the effort to deserve it."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Three

Morning light came into the green room and woke Phileas with a start. The sheets felt unfamiliar, cold and raspy, with a slightly musty scent. He blinked and turned over; he was greeted by the Magdalene painting. In the grey light, the figures stood oddly three-dimensional; Jesus's gesture of rejection seemed more forbidding, and Magdalene's plead more desperate.

He sat up; the linen slid from his bare chest and he shivered in the chilly, damp air. Maddalena still slept by his side, ivory and mahogany against the sheets, but his movement woke her. She opened her eyes, fully awake in one second, and looked at him with a strangely blank expression.

"Good morning," Phileas said. He extended a hand to caress the curve of her waist, her hip, but she slid away from him like an eel and, without a word, padded naked towards the small door. Instants later, the sound of water splashing came from within.

Phileas blinked, slowly, not sure how to react to this morning curtness. However, her absence gave him an excellent opportunity to investigate something he saw last night. Her night table was far too large and bulky to be used only as a stand for a candle, a water carafe and some baubles, and there was something strange about the way it sat on the carpet. He knelt in front on it and opened the cabinet door under the small drawer.

His soft "Ah" and his smile went unnoticed as a loud knock was heard at the double doors.

"That must be Ercole," Maddalena's voice said behind the other door. "Will you open?"

Phileas looked around for something to cover his nakedness. His clothes laid rumpled all around the bed — and over it, and under it, and there was a frantic moment of search until he found his trousers, which he buttoned up quickly, and shirt, which he didn't bother to button up.

Instead of the butler he was expecting, there was a giant at the door.

At least, that was Phileas's first impression. The man was a full head taller than he was, and twice as wide. He held, incongruously, a dainty silver tray with a teapot and cups on it. Phileas gave him a bright, slightly brittle smile.

"Ah. Tea. Excellent!" he said, as he took the tray from the man's huge hands. "Well done, my man. Just the thing. Thank you very much."

The man bowed, ever so slightly, and departed. Phileas closed the door with his foot and, for want of a better surface, set the tray on the bed as he tried to tidy up his appearance. While he was serving the tea, Maddalena came out, dressed in a pale yellow robe and with her hair piled up on her head, tied with gold cord in a vaguely Greek style. He smiled at her, tentatively, as he offered her a cup. Her smile looked genuine, if a bit absent.

"You have very, ah… large servants," he said, sipping tea.

"Oh, you mean Ercole? He's a dear, really. He and his brother Marco are a big help for a woman who lives alone, like me. One has to be careful," her tone was light, noncommittal, and, to Phileas, a bit puzzling. He remembered last night. Surely she did, too. Had the walls of the _palazzo_ been only slightly thinner, the whole of Turin would be remembering last night by now. Yet here she was, sipping tea and talking as if they had just met. He caressed her cheek. She didn't pull away; she merely smiled and went on drinking her tea.

"Maddalena…" his hand rested on the side of her neck, as hers had last night. This time she did pull away, gently. Her smile was unreadable, her eyes very dark.

"_Noli me tangere_, Phileas," she whispered. "_Noli me tangere_."

Chatsworth fretted. It was something that he knew he did like a master. He could fret with the best of them.

And that was about all he could do. He had succeeded in making everybody around him at least as nervous as he was; the hotel staff's continuous "I'm very sorry, sir. Mister Fogg is not in his room" came more and more tartly each time. He ate a big breakfast he didn't really taste, and now he was in his room, away from the windows, his stomach painfully distended and his nerves frayed beyond reason, when the door opened.

Chatsworth very nearly lost his composure and his breakfast at the same time. His mood didn't improve when he realized that the dark, menacing figure in the doorway was Phileas Fogg, as impeccable as always, dressed in an exquisite dark blue suit.

"Good morning, Chatsworth," Fogg said, as if they were in their club in London.

"Fogg! Where have you been? You've been gone all night! I was mad with worry, you shouldn't have left without telling me your plans!"

"I told you I was going to rule out some possibilities, didn't I? I _do_ apologize, however. I was back a while ago, but I had to change clothes and make myself presentable. Have you had any breakfast?" Fogg's voice was light, almost voluble. He looked like the proverbial cat that got the cream.

"Yes," Chatsworth said, torn between his desire to know what Fogg had learned and his sudden burst of irrational anger at the casual, faintly mocking voice.

"Well, I would like you to accompany me anyway; I'm starving. We can talk in the hotel's restaurant."

Fogg ordered a substantial lunch —it was too late for breakfast— with all the delicacies Italian cuisine could devise, and ate with gusto. Chatsworth drank a cup of weak coffee and fretted some more, until the tension was too much for him.

"Well, Fogg?"

The younger man looked up from the chicken he had been eating, swallowed a bite, and smiled.

"Well, I went to Maddalena's house last night," he began. Chatsworth didn't miss the use of her first name, and his face darkened. "A… fascinanting woman. And I found that she has some very interesting party guests."

He then described the reunion and the people he had recognized there. Chatsworth's annoyance faded somewhat at the deluge of sudden information.

"Do you think that one of them stole the documents?"

"It's not impossible, although I still think it's more likely a local job. In any case, I'm almost certain that the Orsini documents are the reason all those people are in Turin right now."

"They will bid for them," Chatsworth agreed.

"Yes. And I discovered also another very interesting piece of information." With admirable sense of drama, Fogg paused to eat an apricot before saying: "Maddalena has a large strongbox in her bedroom. Far too large and far too good to keep only a few jewels." He waited for Chatsworth to draw the logical conclusion, which he did after some seconds. His toady face went slack with realization.

"The auction will take place in her house. The documents are probably there right now! In the strongbox!"

"It's extremely likely, yes."

"But this is wonderful news! We can notify the police and—!" Fogg's long hand shot out to stop Chatsworth's tirade.

"We will do nothing of the sort. A word to the police, and the documents will be destroyed, and all our 'friends' will flee. This too good an opportunity to pass."

"To pass for what?" Chatsworth asked, mystified. Fogg eyed him intently for a second.

"You have been deciphering the Orsini documents, haven't you?"

"Well, yes…"

"You know them better than anyone in Turin, I'd wager."

"In a sense, I suppose…"

"How long will it take you to make a forgery?"

"What?"

"Not the whole thing. Just enough to pass a cursory examination. The package, the first pages… Make just enough changes so that the documents are useless. The rest you can fill with gibberish. How long?"

"Er… A few hours… Four or five, maybe."

"Excellent. Start at once. I must go now, but I will need your help later."

"For what?" Chatsworth asked, although he very much feared he knew the answer.

"We'll steal the documents tonight," Fogg said.

Chatsworth choked on his coffee.

"Fogg, I'm against this course of action. Surely the police can handle this matter."

"Surely not," was the terse answer. "Are you finished?"

"Almost," Chatsworth said through gritted teeth. His head hurt, and his hand was cramped from the hours gripping the pen, trying to reproduce as faithfully as possible the look of the documents stolen from him, while keeping them utterly nonsensical. "This may be absolutely pointless. They could have sold the documents already."

Fogg looked up from the papers he was reading. He had returned only a few minutes before, with handfuls of hastily written notes and a satisfied air. When asked where had he been, he'd simply said "Architectural College" and left it at that. Now he dropped the paper he'd been studying -a crude diagram of some kind- and looked at Chatsworth with a thin smile.

"They have not, and I'll tell you why. Remember who was there, at the palazzo?"

"Of course."

"Well, then. Grosz, Mautreuil, Colosimo, Van der Veldt. Germany, France, Corsica, Holland. What's missing here?"

"What do you… Oh. Russia."

"Precisely. No Russia, no Spain, no Turkey. They are still waiting for people to arrive to the auction."

"Are you sure?" Chatsworth asked, and regretted it immediately. Fogg was always sure, Fogg was never wrong, Fogg was the all-knowing perfect agent, and doubting him was professional suicide. But apart from that, what he said made sense, and _that_ galled Chatsworth even more.

Fogg, who had been stuffing several items in the pockets of his suit and was now examining a small covered lantern, didn't seem put out by Chatsworth's doubts. In fact, he didn't even seem aware of Chatsworth's doubts. As if they didn't matter. As if they weren't even worthy of consideration.

"But even so, we're cutting it awfully close. It's tonight or never," Fogg said, and, after a pause. "I'm not saying it will be easy, understand. I have a pretty clear idea of how to get to the safe, but Maddalena has a couple of very big thugs as bodyguards, and I'll wager they will be around."

"But, Fogg... Surely Donna Vulpe..."

"She is, at the very least, a willing accomplice, Chatsworth," Fogg said, coldly. "Your chivalrous feelings do you a disservice in this case if you think her innocent."

Chatsworth was about to protest that he didn't. But he had. She had smiled at him, and she had been so warm and so kind; she was so beautiful, and yet she had treated him like if he had been worthy of her, when no one else though he was. Not even Fogg.

Especially not Fogg.

He wanted to think she was innocent. And here was Fogg, again crumbling his hopes and expectations. Why should Fogg care for them, he who could seduce so very easily the woman he was about to send to the gallows, and not think twice about it? Chatsworth felt such a strong wave of revulsion and nausea towards Fogg that he stopped in his work and took a long, calming breath. This drew Fogg's attention towards him.

"Are you up for this, Chatsworth? I need to know."

Chatsworth saw everything red at that moment. How dared he. How _dared_ he. Tongue-tied in helpless rage, he fought to convey his outrage through his eyes, and, apparently, failed, since all he got was Fogg telling him that chamomile tea does wonders for an upset stomach.

"I will do whatever is required, Fogg," Chatsworth said, with as much coldness as he could muster. Fogg gave him a quick, measuring look that stopped short of being judgmental.

"Very well then," he said, and went back to his preparations.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Four

Chatsworth wondered why Fogg made the cab driver take some apparently random route around Maddalena's house.

"If we are discovered and have to run, we'll make for the riverfront," Fogg said suddenly. "I trust you'll know the way?"

"I will," Chatsworth said curtly. It was not a lie; he was reasonably familiar with the streets of Turin. But the sudden realization that he may have to stake his life on that familiarity made his mouth go dry. He remembered now all the reasons why he never wanted to be a field agent.

"Just keep by my side," Fogg said. "If we are not discovered all should be well."

"But, Fogg — " Despite his contempt for the man, Chatsworth felt relieved by his presence. In the dead of night, at the time when all the ghosts of a man come out to whisper their terrible truths, Chatsworth had a particular one who told him that Fogg was a superb agent. And now, in the carriage, the ghost made a brief reappearance, waving and grimacing, pointing at the younger man and nodding. Chatsworth was glad that, in this undertaking, it was Fogg beside him and no other. But he would die, or rather (he said to himself), he would face some very terrible yet reversible discomfort the details of which escaped him at the moment, before he would admit that.

"But what?" Fogg said.

"Nothing. It will go all right."

"That's the spirit. Here. We're close."

"Close?" A glace at the windows showed Chatsworth an utterly unfamiliar sight of grubby houses and narrow streets. The car stopped and Fogg went out with a light hop. Chatsworth followed, less sprightly.

"Maddalena's house is there," Fogg said, pointing. 'There' was a corner of a blocky stone building that looked nothing like the marble façade of the Palazzo Vulpe.

But it was. Once they were closer, Chatsworth recognized the adjacent streets and the building itself. They were around the back, where a narrow wooden door was receiving Fogg's attentions.

"This leads to the kitchens," Fogg was saying as he extracted some picklocks from a pocket. "There's a small service stairway leading up."

Chatsworth didn't remember a service stairway, or even a kitchen, although logic told him that there must have been a kitchen. But kitchens, like servants and tea and waiters, were things that, in Chatsworth's world, only appeared when needed and then faded to the back alleys of memory.

Apparently this didn't happen in Fogg's world. Chatsworth looked, fascinated, as the long, supple fingers of his companion maneuvered the picklocks into the keyhole and moved them gently and purposefully. A few instants later, there was a _click_ and the door moved an inch inwards. Fogg stopped it with one hand as he returned the picklocks to wherever they had come from, and then turned to Chatsworth.

"Gently now. Follow me," he whispered. Then he opened the door barely enough to let him pass and disappeared into the house.

Chatsworth followed him, opening the door a bit more, and nearly screamed. They were in a small irregular room lined with wooden crates full of produce: bell peppers, lemons, radishes, tomatoes. Obviously a pantry, and a place where deliveries were stored. At the far end there was a curtain made of reed sections wired together, that did almost nothing to hide the orange light, voices and noise pouring from the opening, straight over the rigid, terrified form of Chatsworth. Fogg's hand came from his right and pulled, nearly making him fall. He was dragged into the shadows of a small nook redolent of onions.

"Kitchens," Fogg whispered. "Too noisy and busy to pay attention to this place, unless someone stands there for too long, gaping foolishly at them right in the light."

Chatsworth was still too shaken to take offence.

"How are we going to pass through there?"

"We are not. Look."

Fogg was pointing at the corner, where all Chatsworth could see was darkness. But gradually he could make out a spaced grayness that his overexcited brain finally resolved into stairs, leading down.

"Cellars?" he mouthed. Fogg nodded, smiling, and went down.

"This is an old hotel," Fogg said, as they walked through a damp darkness full of smells of mildewed earth and rotting wood. "It has several entrances to the cellars. We should find one close to the service stairs, if I'm not mistaken."

_Don't lecture me_, Chatsworth thought, as he wondered how could Fogg know so much about a house he'd been to only once before, and how could he walk so fast in the darkness. He could barely see anything, and was afraid of tripping and falling. Which made Fogg tell him, impatiently, to hurry up.

They turned a corner and Fogg stopped. The wall in front of them, made of an untidy mix of rough stone and what looked like broken tiles, was interrupted by a small wooden door.

"This must be it," Fogg said, bending down to check the crack between door and floor. It was quite dark.

Again the lockpicks came into action. Again the door clicked open, this time inwards, and Fogg steadied it, listening for any noise outside.

"It seems to be safe," he whispered finally. Chatsworth had trouble hearing the words; his heart was pounding heavily in his chest. "Follow me."

Fogg slid through a crack in the door like a black eel. Chatsworth followed, feeling more like a flopping fish.

They were in a passageway with plastered walls that ran parallel to the house's outer wall and ended in a narrow staircase. A wooden door broke the wall to their left, and Chatsworth nearly had a heart attack when noises and music wafted towards them when they passed by it, but Fogg merely pointed to the stairs.

Up, up through the almost total darkness, following the silent form of Fogg and trying not to stumble, until they reached a landing. There was an impression of open space, a coldness made of stone and air. A warm orange glow from the party below only deepened the shadows that surrounded them.

"Maddalena's room is over there," Fogg whispered, pointing in the dark. Chatsworth, breathing through his open mouth, could only nod and follow.

The double doors opened and closed behind them. Fogg let out a small sigh.

"There. So far, so good," he said. There was a slight noise, then a flame lit up in the darkness. Chatsworth closed his eyes against the glare, then Fogg drew the cover over the lantern until only a small ray of light shone, barely enough to see by.

"Here."

The lantern was thrust into Chatsworth's hand as Fogg made a beeline for the nightstand. There he opened the small cabinet door, knelt by it, and set his picklocks by his side on the carpet.

"Bring the light here."

A strange interlude followed. Chatsworth strained to listen for noises outside over the faint clicks and scrapes of Fogg's lockpicks and the occasional sigh of frustration. After a while, his world narrowed to his sense of hearing and Fogg's hands, white and long-fingered in the dark, moving like pale spiders with a life of their own in small, precise movements over the lock. Hands of an artist or a musician; skilled hands, deft with cards and picklocks and—

Those same clever hands had moved over Maddalena's skin, Chatsworth thought suddenly. The nearby bed must be hers. She'd sleep on those sheets. She and Fogg…

"Keep the light steady," came a sharp whisper.

Chatsworth gritted his teeth and let another endless interval go by. Then —

"Ah."

A loud click made both of them jump, and then the strongbox opened. Fogg's hand darted inside and came out with several packets tied with ribbons.

"Give me the copies."

They were warm and damp from being inside his coat. Fogg sorted through his loot quickly, and finally came up with a bundle tied with a purple ribbon. He smiled.

"Heh. Cardinal purple. She has a sense of humor," he said. Chatsworth didn't get the joke, but it was the first thing Fogg had said that night that had nothing to do with the mission, and it enraged him because it was about her, and implied an intimacy that Chatsworth could never aspire to. He bit his lip while Fogg substituted one set for another, put the real documents inside his coat, put the copy and everything else back in the box, closed it, and picked up his instruments.

"Now to get out," he said, all business, unaware of the feelings he had awakened in Chatsworth, who turned rigidly and went to the door. As he turned, the beam from the lantern fell upon the Magdalene painting.

Chatsworth stopped and let out a tiny yelp, so lifelike were the figures in the almost total darkness. Fogg's hand on his shoulder steadied him.

"Just a painting," he said, but there was a pensive note in his voice. Chatsworth's gaze lingered over it a couple of seconds before turning away. Just a painting, yet there was something disquieting about it, something he couldn't pinpoint exactly.

Meanwhile Fogg was by the doors. He made a furious downward gesture with his hand and Chatsworth, with a guilty start, put out the lantern and went to him. Inch by agonizing inch, Fogg opened the door barely enough to look outside. The he went back inside and closed it again.

"Damn." His voice was tense.

"What is it?"

"Ercole is coming. Or maybe Marco; they are hard to tell apart. They are Maddalena's guards-cum-butlers, and a bloody nuisance right now."

"He's coming here?" he fought hard to suppress the terror in his voice, but he didn't succeed even to his forgiving ears. Fogg took a second to answer.

"Maybe. Come on."

Fogg half-guided, half-pushed Chatsworth to the wall by the door. He went to the other side.

"Not a move, not a sound," Fogg said. There was a different edge in his voice as heavy footsteps approached the door, then passed it by. In the darkness, Chatsworth smiled with relief. But Fogg kept silent and still. It was a peculiar stillness, coiled and tense and dangerous. Uncertain, Chatsworth waited.

There was the sound of a door opening, closing. The footsteps returned and then there was a loud scraping of a chair on the floor, right on the other side of the door. A heavy weight fell down on the chair with a _thump_, there was a huge sigh, then some creaking, and then silence.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Five

Chatsworth stood stock still for a moment, unable to make sense of the situation. Fogg's hand came out of nowhere, took him in a iron grip, and dragged him to the other side of the big room.

"She's posted a guard," Fogg whispered. "She must have announced what it is she has for auction, and she must not want any overexcited guests helping themselves to the Orsini documents. We have only a few moments to make our escape."

"W—wuh… What do we… My God, Fogg, how can we…," Chatsworth stammered, paralyzed. His imagination turned the man outside into an ogre, the stairs into an insurmountable abyss, the situation into a hopeless one. He panted and sweated. His mind was a blank.

"We must act quickly," Fogg was saying. "His back is to us. We'll open the door and overpower him, then we'll leave the way we've come. Are you ready?"

Fogg started moving toward the door, but Chatsworth stopped him with a strength born of pure terror.

"Wait!," he almost exclaimed, "Fogg, wait. I— I cannot… It's impossible, I couldn't…"

"I cannot get him by myself, man," Fogg hissed, vehemently. "I need your help. Grab him while I—"

"No!" Chatsworth felt his face hot and his hands cold as ice. He knew he was a coward now. He had only suspected it before, but now the certainty struck him between the eyes with enough force to leave him numb. That Fogg was the witness to his disgrace only served to turn his terror into abject helplessness.

"I… can't," he panted, mouth dry, heart pounding. "I can't."

There was a pause. Chatsworth made the most fervent wish of his life at that moment. But no lightning bolt came down to strike him dead. Instead came Fogg's voice. It was worse.

"I see," the voice said. It held no inflection at all. No judgment. Everything was clear now.

"Change of plans, then," Fogg said grimly, after a second. Chatsworth was grabbed again and pulled towards what turned out to be another door. This opened into a small space smelling of soaps and perfumes. A narrow rectangle up one wall let in a faint glow of yellow gaslight from the street.

"An exit?" gargled Chatsworth, his shame momentarily assuaged to realize that they may yet escape unnoticed. Fogg had climbed a stool and was trying to open the window. It did so with a fearful creak, letting in cold night air.

Then Fogg went back to the door, opened it, and threw one of his lockpicks into the bedroom. It clinked loudly against a bedpost and fell by the nightstand. Chatsworth opened his mouth to voice his shock, but Fogg, leaving the door ajar, went back to him.

"Come on, up," Fogg said. Before Chatsworth could protest, he was pushed, with some effort, through the narrow opening. They were a few yards up from a small, enclosed courtyard filled with all sorts of junk. There was some sort of lean-to shed made of wood and old roof tiles underneath the window.

"Down the drainpipe, hurry," came Fogg's voice from inside. Chatsworth was no climber, but fear gave him enough strength to half-slid, half-fall down the lead drainpipe. He scraped his hands, tore his trousers, and landed badly on a bent foot, but eventually he made it down to the earthen floor of the courtyard. A second later, Fogg dropped lightly by his side.

"What's the way out?," Chatsworth asked, looking around him at the old crates, discarded furniture, piles of broken earthenware, bundles of muddy clothes and assorted garbage that filled the small space. Fogg pointed up to one of the walls, apparently unclimbable.

"You can reach the street from there and then run towards the river. Look for busy streets," he said hurriedly, searching inside his clothes. He produced something and thrust it inside Chatsworth's coat, taking at the same time the closed lantern. Chatsworth, surprised, patted his chest and felt the rustle of heavy legal papers.

"The Orsini documents! Why…?"

"No time," Fogg said curtly, and fixed him with a stare, holding his arm in a death grip. "Listen. Hide up there and don't move or make a sound _no matter what happens_. When the coast is clear, figure out a way of climbing that wall and leave. Take the documents to safety. Do you understand?"

"But…"

"This is a high price to pay. You _must_ do it, Chatsworth!," Fogg said, hoarse urgency in his voice. He pushed Chatsworth behind a reeking pile of junk. "Keep hidden! I'll distract them."

The _How_ choked in Chatsworth's throat as Fogg practically threw him on the ground and left him. He walked to the middle of the courtyard and then, unexpectedly, tripped or fell. There was a loud noise of broken crockery.

"In here!," said a voice from above. Chatsworth peered through a small opening in the pile of junk that hid him and saw a red-haired head lean from the window. A hand also came out, holding a pistol.

"Stop!," said Maddalena, and pointed the gun at Fogg, who was standing quite visibly in the middle of the courtyard, apparently trying to get to the opposite wall. He stopped and raised his arms slowly. His face was set. For a second he looked directly to where Chatsworth was hiding, and something in his eyes struck the older agent like a bullet to the chest.

"Turn around," she ordered. Fogg complied. Chatsworth breathed again now that he couldn't see those terrible eyes.

"Well, well," Maddalena was saying. "Mister Phileas Fogg. A very enterprising man, I see."

Fogg shrugged.

"The opportunity was too good to let it pass, _madonna_," he said, gentle mockery in his voice.

"True," she acknowledged. A dilapidated small door by the shed opened, and Marco and Ercole came out. "Seize him," said Maddalena. "I'm coming down."

The head disappeared from the window. Fogg made no resistance as the two men grabbed him and twisted his arms behind his back. A few instants later Maddalena joined them in the courtyard. She was dressed in gold velvet, with rubies in her white throat. Even then, Chatsworth's breath stopped for a second at her beauty, and his heart fluttered painfully. Her pistol was pointed at Fogg's chest.

"Marco, search his clothes."

Ercole got Fogg in a strangle hold while Marco searched his clothes. From the labored gasps that Fogg let out, it was clear that Ercole was not being too gentle. Lockpicks appeared, then the lantern.

"Strange equipment for a gentleman," Maddalena said coldly, with a gesture to Ercole. Both men took hold of Fogg again.

"Just… trying my luck," Fogg gasped.

"He has nothing else? Any papers?," Maddalena asked. Marco shook his head, and she smiled. It was a radiant smile, warm and full of joy. Only a hard light in the dark amber eyes belied it.

"I know who you are. A friend told me. Phileas Fogg the agent. Phileas Fogg the player. I wanted to play against you last night", she said, softly, going to him, caressing his lapel with the back of her fingernail. "You're a very good player. You play cards as well as you play with women you have no right to, and with documents you have no right to. Except sometimes, you cannot get them. Sometimes, it seems, luck is not with us, _non é vero?_"

"Nor time," Fogg said calmly. Maddalena pressed the pistol to his chest.

"So now I kill you," she said, almost happily. "And throw you in the river. And Phileas Fogg plays no more with documents — nor with women."

Fogg looked at her directly. There was no fear in his expression, just an odd earnestness.

"I wasn't playing," he said, very softly. Maddalena's eyes widened for a second. Then she struck Fogg in the face with the pistol.

Chatsworth had never seen a man being hit before. He was surprised at the noise it made, hard and wet. His hand went to his cheekbone in involuntary sympathy as Fogg staggered and was supported by his two captors. Maddalena took a step back, panting.

"And Phileas Fogg won't lie again," she said in a low voice, full of certainty. "Don't you fear me? You should. I'm going to kill you."

"You won't shoot," Fogg stated flatly. "Your clients will hear. They won't trust you as the keeper of the Orsini documents if you have to shoot a burglar during the auction."

Maddalena looked surprised. Then she looked at the pistol in her hand and burst out laughing. It was a rich laugh, fruity and contagious. Chatsworth flinched.

"Clever Phileas Fogg! Charming, clever, darling Phileas! Of course I won't shoot you!," she trilled, and twirling around as if dancing, she tossed the pistol aside. In two long strides she was again close to him. Her hand caressed his hair. "You are right, of course. Men so often think they are. I won't shoot you, no."

Her hand extended towards Ercole in a demanding gesture, although her eyes never left Fogg, who looked at the discarded gun hungrily for a second and struggled briefly, to no avail. Ercole, meanwhile, took something from a pocket and put it in Maddalena's hand.

"I don't need to shoot you, Phileas," she purred, caressing his face, his neck, the bloody bruise on his cheekbone. "There are so many thugs in this city, you know. They mug rich gentlemen. They beat them to death and rob them and throw their bodies into the river. I'll have you killed tonight, my Phileas. Aren't you afraid?"

Chatsworth was. He could see Fogg's profile, the untouched side of his face, and wondered how the man could look so calm. He was pale, true, but his face betrayed no emotion; he stood as straight as he could, aloof and cold, forbidding even. Maddalena searched into his eyes for a long moment and frowned.

"You will not look at me like that for long," she said. Now there was a slight tremor in her voice, as of suppressed rage. She flicked her wrist; Chatsworth saw that what Ercole had given her was a small folding knife with a thin, straight blade that now glinted white in the gaslight. She touched the tip to Fogg's cheek, just under his eye. He didn't blink.

"I don't need to send you whole to your death," she said, smiling again. The sharp point caressed lightly his cheek, his jawbone, his neck. Chatsworth felt like vomiting. "I could do something to that beautiful face of yours. Uncover those lovely bones. Show you the red underneath."

If she was looking for a reaction, she got none. Fogg kept looking at her, face unreadable, even when her knife went to the corner of his left eye and stayed there. She smiled, bit her lip playfully.

"I could make you stop looking at me like that. I could make you stop looking at anything at all, you know?"

The knife pressed a little; a drop of blood appeared at the corner of Fogg's eye and fell down like a ruby tear.

"Should I go… left? Or should I go right? Or up?" she said in a singsong voice. "Oh, it looks like it's going to be… down." The knife traced a slow, deliberate arc downwards, leaving a short red line that turned into a red rivulet running down Fogg's face. This time she got a reaction: his lips parted slightly. She withdrew the knife.

"Does it hurt, my Phileas? What is it? Is death loosening your tongue? What will you ask of me? Life? A boon? Half my kingdom?" She laughed again and waited.

Fogg bent his head slightly towards her, as if he wanted to kiss her. She raised an eyebrow, amused at first. Then her gaze softened and she turned her face to his, a half-smile playing on her parted lips, her red tongue flickering tantalizingly from between the white, small teeth.

He bent down, but stopped short of kissing her. For a moment they stood like that, frozen, a macabre love tableau.

"_Noli me tangere_, Maddalena," he said, coldly and deliberately, into her waiting mouth. "_Noli me tangere_."

A snarl of rage came from Maddalena. She flailed wildly with her knife and the blade cut a diagonal slash across Fogg's chest, who let out a cry. The she dropped the knife and gouged deep scratches into his neck with her nails, all semblance of playfulness or calm gone from her face or voice.

"Oh, I won't touch you," she screeched. "I won't touch you because you are _dead_, and the flesh of your corpse sickens me! I won't touch you because you're dead, dead and broken in the bottom of the river, and fishes eat your eyes and your tongue! I won't touch you for fear of the slime that covers you, and your glassy eyes, and the smell of the grave upon you! Ercole!"

A brutal blow to the kidneys sent Fogg to the ground. Marco and Ercole stood over him as he tried weakly to get up. Maddalena spat by his side.

"Make it look like a mugging, and throw the body somewhere," she ordered in Italian, going to retrieve the pistol. "And then come back here as fast as you can, I'll need you."

Without another look at his victim, she disappeared inside. Fogg was trying to get up again; Marco kicked him viciously in the ribcage, drawing a hoarse yell from the Englishman, and Ercole went to get a piece of wood with a businesslike air. Chatsworth, feeling about to faint of horror and revulsion, looked without seeing as the blows started falling, relentless, one after the other, punctuated by Fogg's cries. _No matter what, no matter what_, said a voice inside his head during the onslaught. _Even this?_

He had no time to figure out an answer. Fogg was silent now. After a short while, the blows stopped. The two men picked up the limp, bloody form and disappeared through the door.

Chatsworth was alone.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Six

He remained frozen in place, paralyzed with dread. What had happened was just unimaginable. There was no possible scenario in which Fogg would be beaten to a pulp. He couldn't be. He was Fogg. Invincible. Perfect. Hatefully so.

Realization dawned slowly upon him as he crouched, cramped and cold and numb, behind the pile of junk.

Fogg had sacrificed himself so he could escape with the documents.

Because he, Jonathan Chatsworth, had been too much of a coward to fight their way out. The high price Fogg had spoken about had been himself.

He saw red then. Rage overtook him, at his own cowardice, at Fogg's cold resolution, his diamond-like courage that only left Chatsworth in a deeper abyss, his honor trampled beyond recognition. Rage made him shake off his paralysis and his mind started working again.

The forgeries were still inside the house. The auction was either finished or about to finish, and morning was coming fast. There was no one around and it didn't seem likely that they'd come back to the courtyard. The risk of being discovered increased with every second he stayed there. He had to move. He had to do as Fogg said. Take the documents to safety, ensure that Fogg's ruse will play out as intended.

The wall was high and, for Chatsworth, impossible to climb. But there was a lot of material in the courtyard. He made a clumsy pile of crates and old planks that gave him enough of a leg up so that he could pant and groan his way past the wall. The drop on the other side was some seven feet high, and he would have hesitated to jump it, but gravity decided for him when he slipped on the damp stones and fell to the street. He had to hope that the pile wouldn't be discovered soon.

Bones aching and legs shaky, clutching his breast over his coat where the documents were, Chatsworth limped to his hotel.

He had cut it too close. That was the mantra that run through Fogg's dazed mind as he tried as hard as he could to appear dead.

His only chance, once it was clear that it wouldn't be a duel of wits between him and Maddalena, had been to fool those two lugs into thinking their task had been accomplished, and hope to escape with his life. Which was enough, if Chatsworth could escape with the documents.

He had been beaten before, and by professionals. Ercole and Marco were not professionals; they were just strong. He protected his belly and head as best as he could and tried to parry the worst blows with arms and legs, putting up as good a show of being beaten to death as he could. It was hard enough at first, but the assault never seemed to end. Ribs broke. His world darkened and returned in a red and purple mist of pain, and he passed out a couple of times. His unconsciousness at the end wasn't all a fake; he was not entirely oblivious but he was unable to move, and barely able to breathe. If they decided to keep beating him, he'd have no strength left to protect himself.

Fortunately they didn't. They stood upon him, panting, waiting, and he lay still, trying to draw shallow breaths that hurt as if a dagger was stuck between his ribs.

They picked him up then, and he blacked out for real as battered muscles and bruised bones grated against each other.

Cold air woke him up, and the smell of river mud.

"I think he moved," Marco said, unless he was Ercole. Fogg went as limp as possible, even though the effort was costing him all he had left.

"I don't think so," said the other one. "Just hurry. It will be dawn soon."

A black interlude, knotted in throbbing pain, and then an absence of movement. Fogg risked cracking open an eyelid.

At first he saw nothing, but he heard the sound of water lapping stone beneath him. He panicked; in his state he'd be unable to swim even if the fall didn't make him lose consciousness again.

"Here?," asked probably Marco.

"Here's good."

"I don't think he's dead."

"He will be soon enough, anyway," said maybe Ercole, and Fogg felt himself being swung back and forth a couple of times and released. For a moment he hung in the air, blessedly free of constraints, pain, and hope.

_So that's how it ends_, he thought, feeling a strange, detached disappointment. _Erasmus will be so sad_.

Then he hit stone, much sooner than he'd expected: a slimy, sloped surface. Unable to stop himself, he started rolling downwards towards the water.

_The new riverbanks!,_ he thought, even as his legs hit the cold water and he slid rapidly under the surface. Hope flared within him as he pictured in his mind the new, sloped banks of the river, built recently to ward off the flash floods that hit the city from time to time.

He couldn't swim, but he could grab. So he grabbed the stones under the surface and clung to the river bank, under the dark cold water, head as close to the surface as he dared, and waited. Now all depended on luck and his sense of timing. And his endurance; if he passed out, he was dead. If he waited too long, he would drown. If he didn't wait long enough and they were waiting for him, they will finish up the job for good.

All in all, not good chances, he thought, fighting to hold his breath under the oily, cold water. Bubbles broke the surface as the little air he had in his lungs escaped. He had to choose now. Death was not a stranger to him tonight and he wondered if he could cheat her a third time. His fingers tensed on the flagstones and he pulled himself slowly up the slope until he felt his head break the surface. He took a long, instinctive gulp of air that sent cold fire through his mistreated ribs. If Ercole and Marco were still there, he was lost. But he was too tired, and too hurt, to be able to do anything about it. He laid his cheek on the stones, wearily, and waited for whichever death wanted to claim him first.

Moving like an inept burglar, Chatsworth made his way to his room, startling maids and servants. He locked the door behind him and leaned against the door, panting like a horse. Then he rushed to the balcony doors and the windows, closing all the shutters and drawing all the curtains. Lighting a lamp, he took the Orsini documents and put them on the table. Floating over the smooth parchment surface and the purple ribbon, Fogg's face as he had seen him from his hiding place looked at him accusingly.

"They killed him," he said aloud, as if the sound could make the thought less final. A spasm crossed his face and settled in as an ugly, taut grimace. Relief at having recovered the documents, shock as the implications of Fogg's death started to unfold in his mind, and sheer physical and emotional exhaustion, took his toll. Bent over the documents, hands clenched on the table's sides, Chatsworth gave himself to a fit of hysterics, laughing and crying at the same time.

He was warm and comfortable, perfectly at ease.

" Is he dead? "

Something tugged at his arms. His ribs woke up and he cried out, or tried to. No sound came out; only an ugly rattle.

" No, he's alive. Help me take him out. "

" Poor man, look what they've done to him. "

" He's rich, look at his clothes. "

" It's a miracle he's alive. "

The voices made no sense, but there were hands tugging and pulling and pushing, sending waves of agony through his every bone. He tried to tell them to leave him alone, but he seemed unable to draw enough air to do it. More hands pulled at his clothes. Cold hit him in the chest and he gasped.

" Oh, my God! "

" He needs a priest. "

" Let's take him to where is dry. "

Fogg gaped weakly, trying to make a sound, any sound. His brain was muddled; a deep fear of being discovered by Ercole and Marco, and a vague need to be somewhere, were the only coherent thoughts he could muster over the deep layer of pain and nausea. They lifted him again and he let out a strangled, small cry.

" Put him down, put him down, you're hurting him! "

" He's all broken. He'll not last long. "

" Bring some blankets here! And someone fetch the priest. "

" Poor man, and so young, too. "

" Sir, can you hear me? Sir? "

A rough hand touched his cheek and forehead. Fogg blinked and opened his eyes. At first he saw nothing. Then a gray blob appeared in front of him. It pulsed and throbbed and made him dizzy. He closed his eyes again and moved a hand in a feeble gesture.

" Sir, you're very badly hurt. A priest is coming, if you wish. We'll try to take you to a hospital. "

The words made it to Fogg's aching head and made some kind of sense. _I must be in Italy_, he thought, with a streak of black humor. _A priest before a hospital_. Well, he knew Italian hospitals; they had a point there.

"No…," he rasped, scared at how weak the effort of speaking left him.

" Sir? "

" No… priests… no… hoss…pitl…, " he ran out of breath. Then a sudden thought hit him.

"Chatsworth," he said, as clearly as he could. They didn't understand him, of course. He gathered his last reserves of strength and tried again.

"Hotel… Imperiale," he said. The effort cost him all he had left. He drew a ragged, bubbly breath and laid still.

Chatsworth dozed fitfully on a chair, the Orsini documents clutched against his breast in a death grip. He didn't know what to do. The longer he stayed there, the greater the risk, but Fogg's death had turned all his plans to water. Should he look for the body? Bring it to England? Leave it there, to the cruel and cold fate of agents fallen in the line of duty? The thought of facing Sir Boniface with tidings of the death of his eldest son terrified him.

Yet it was a matter of hours before all was out in the open, so to speak. When they discovered the forgeries, and with them the theft, they would do all in their power to stop anyone from getting out of Turin with the original documents. And Chatsworth's presence in Turin, although disregarded since Fogg's arrival, was not unknown.

Yet he couldn't move. The thought of facing the consequences of his acts during this last day left him cold and weak, with a nervous knot in his stomach and the bile rising up his throat. And what surprised him was the strength of his anger at Fogg, for being able to do what he'd done to save the documents, when Chatsworth had failed so miserably, as an agent and as a man.

He would have preferred Fogg to yell at him, to insult him, and then to hit him unconscious and carry him and the documents out of danger, in some vague and amazing way much more in agreement with Fogg's reputation than the brutal way in which he'd been killed.

_Even in death_, Chatsworth thought bitterly at the dark, grim ghost his mind's eye saw everywhere in the room, _you best me_. He looked at the documents. _This is your doing, yet it'll be me who carries them home. It will help my career immensely. But I'll always know the price we both paid._ He sighed nervously, but with a faint, guilty pleasure at the thought of oncoming rewards. Then he unfolded himself from the chair, considering how to get out of Turin as fast as he could.

A knock in the door made him jump a foot in the air.

"Mister Chatsworth?," a young voice said. Recognizing the bellboy's voice, Chatsworth took a deep breath and opened the door a crack. The kid widened his eyes at Chatsworth's wild and dishevelled appearance, and appeared to forget his errand.

"What is it?" Chatsworth asked, in a high, thin voice. _Had he been discovered already?_

"Sir, please, there's a man to see you downstairs."

"A man? What man?" Chatsworth gasped, wondering whether he should bolt through the window.

"Oh, he's not a man really, only my cousin Niccolo, sir," the boy explained easily, his training buried under family pride. "He says there's a message for you. He speaks English too, sir, although not as well as I do."

Chatsworth blinked.

"Your cousin?," he asked, picturing the huge forms of Ercole and Marco. "How old is he?"

"He's thirteen, sir. He says it's urgent, sir."

"Bring him up here."

"Oh, no, I couldn't do that, sir, on account of the carpets. The manager will beat me if I let Niccolo to the guests' rooms, sir."

Chatsworth hesitated a long moment. Then he said, "Wait a moment," and went to get the heavy, unwieldy gun Fogg had left in his room, considering it too noisy, while preparing the night's disastrous expedition. He stuffed it in his coat, next to the Orsini documents, and followed the boy downstairs.

Niccolo was a grubby, skinny boy shorter than his age suggested. His clothes were as filthy as his face and hands, which held a scrap of cloth that turned out to be a cap. Somewhat calmer, he went to him.

"What is it?"

"Is it Chas-wor, sir? I look for Chas-wor."

"I am Chatsworth."

"Sir, there is gentleman that was on the river and that he say your name."

"What?"

"He means they found a gentleman in the river, and he was saying your name, sir," the bellboy supplied, helpfully, earning a murderous gaze from his cousin.

"My name? What can that…?" Chatsworth stopped as realization hit him and left him reeling. It was impossible, and in a way, terrifying. It would mean an uncertain world, where men were more than men and they cheated death even when it was impossible; a world of giants that left no place for Chatsworth.

"He infirm, sir, much. We call priest."

"He means he's very sick, sir."

"Yes, I got that. Where is he? _Dove lei?_," he asked Niccolo, who pointed and let out a bubbling, rapid stream of Italian. The bellboy started to translate, then stopped and shrugged.

"I'll take you there."

Translated from Italian. Yes, really.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Seven

It _was_ impossible. But it was also Fogg. Or what was left of him. They had taken him to a house in the riverfront, and laid him over some blankets, covering him with more. His face was leaden, his breathing labored. The bruise in his cheek had deepened to a dirty purple, matching his lips; the cut in the corner of his left eye was red and angry.

"Good Heavens. Fogg," Chatsworth said, a mix of shock and incredulity in his voice. He had never seen someone alive with so much right to call himself dead. One of the hands he had reluctantly admired a few hours before pawed weakly in the air and the livid lips moved. Blood glinted darkly against the teeth.

Dazed, Chatsworth knelt on the dirty floor and put his ear next to Fogg's mouth.

"Get us… out," Fogg said, or rather mouthed. "Of Turin. Out."

"Fogg, that would be madness. You are very seriously hurt, we shouldn't move you. I'll take you to a hospital and…"

The white hand grasped Chatsworth's lapel with uncanny strength and the green eyes opened for a fraction of a second. Even in that state, Fogg's glare reduced Chatsworth to cinders. It was the same eyes that had looked at him in the courtyard, eyes full of the most terrible awareness and a determination so strong that, even though life was ebbing from Fogg with every breath, Chatsworth found his sensible objections hiding down in his stomach.

"Out," Fogg whispered again. "England."

"I'll — Very well, Fogg. I'll do all I can."

"Father… tell…," the last words were a forlorn whisper, dragged from the very edges of unconsciousness, or death. Fogg's hand went limp and his breath turned thin and fast.

Chatsworth sat on his haunches for a little while, thinking.

"Sir? The priest is here," the bellboy said.

"We won't need a priest," Chatsworth said softly. "Find me a coach and bring our things here."

The coach ride didn't kill Fogg. Nor did the awful Italian roads, or the breakneck pace of the horses. Chatsworth, who until then had stinted on his budget with the aim of impressing his superiors with his frugality when he presented his accounts, now showered people with gold right and left, surprised at its power to make his wishes come true.

His wishes amounted to speed and discretion, and both had been amply supplied. Niccolo had found him a doctor, an old man bent as a twig and who seemed about to break in two with his next coughing fit. Muttering to himself an endless string of invocations to all the saints in Heaven, the doctor set to work and got Fogg cleaned up and bandaged. He shook his head when Chatsworth paid him.

"Not good. Not move," the doctor said, pointing to Fogg, and when Chatsworth shrugged, he pressed a rosary to his palm.

"You pray many."

Chatsworth fingered the rosary in the coach while they fled from Turin just before dawn. He had sent a flurry of cables, and if all went well, a _felucca_ would be waiting for him by the coast. From there they'd go to Minorca, there to get a ship to England: the fastest ship his money and position as a Secret Service man could get them. He'd be in England in a couple of weeks. With Fogg or with Fogg's body.

They had made Fogg fast to the other seat of the coach, bundled up in blankets. Chatsworth hadn't prayed a single word, even though it looked as if prayers would be the only thing to help Fogg in this trip. Yet he didn't die during the night; nor the next day, when they stopped to change horses and Chatsworth clumsily made him drink some water and the medicines he'd bought. With every league they put between themselves and Turin, Chatsworth's panic attacks, his fancies that they were being pursued, and his urge to check that the Orsini documents had not disintegrated from his coat pocket, diminished, and finally vanished. Now a warm glow started to spread through his being, as he realized that the mission had succeeded in recovering the documents and his costly mistake had been, therefore, harmless.

A glance at the still form of Fogg made him amend his assessment of "harmless" into "not fatal". And even that was in question. Bringing a wounded but living Fogg back to England would discover his cowardice, his ineptitude, and his role in the nearly fatal beating of one of the best agents in the Service. No matter how he'd try to dress up the _gaffe_ in his report, the sharp eye of Sir Boniface would pluck the truth from among the evasions and omissions, and his position in the Service would be compromised, if not finished.

If Fogg died during the trip…

Chatsworth clamped _that_ thought down with an almost audible sound. The man had saved him and the mission at great cost to himself. His quick thinking and his courage had given Chatsworth the means to escape with the documents. He must not die.

Yet, if he were to die…

Things would be so much easier for Chatsworth then. Fogg's shadow, his legend and his results, would not block Chatsworth's accomplishments to Sir Boniface's eye anymore. His irritating superiority and his high-brow disdain would never grate on Chatsworth's nerves again. The memory of his failure at Maddalena's house would remain buried in the narrow and twisted recessed of Chatsworth's soul. No one would ever know. He looked thoughtfully at the still, pale form of Fogg.

Inaction was all that was required.

He excelled at inaction.

The coach jumped over a pothole, making Fogg groan in his sleep. Chatsworth sighed, and went to draw the blankets a little tighter around him.

The fever started during their trip to Genoa and climbed up alarmingly when they reached Minorca. Chatsworth arranged for another doctor to examine Fogg; his recommendations - absolute rest and clean air - were cavalierly ignored in favor of a stuffy cabin in a cramped ship carrying mail to England. It was not Chatsworth's choice, though he had favored it; Fogg had recovered consciousness a couple of times and had been adamant in his resolution of going back home. Even though it was probably the delirium that made him say so, Chatsworth complied. _If the man wants to kill himself_, he thought uncharitably, _then let him._

Still, he made all he could to make him comfortable, bringing along a generous amount of laudanum and extra money with which to buy fresh food to help to his recovery, in case Fogg would survive this crisis.

He despaired of a happy resolution when, a day after crossing the Gibraltar strait, Fogg fell into a coma. Chatsworth stayed with him during a whole day and a night, checking periodically his pulse and breathing.

Fogg's still face had nothing of the mocking, superior air that infuriated Chatsworth so much. He looked haggard, and his expression was sad and oddly youthful, reminding his companion of the gangly teenager that had been introduced to him years back, when he had entered the Service. This didn't look like the man who had mocked a woman who held a knife to his eye. Was this sad, young face what really lived beneath the man who could do all these things?

The night passed slowly and full of dread. By dawn Fogg was still alive, and Chatsworth left the cabin to get something to eat.

When he returned there came a soft sigh from the bed. Fogg's eyes were open, calm and clear and exhausted.

"England," he whispered.

"We're on our way, Fogg," Chatsworth said, wondering at his feelings of relief and joy. He didn't even _like_ the man, for goodness' sake.

"Good," Fogg said, smiling faintly. Then he slept.

Fogg limped for the first time to the prow, slowly and haltingly, when they finally arrived to the Channel. He leaned on the gunwhale, panting, and looked ahead. There was nothing to see; a thick pearly mist hid everything from their sight.

"Good morning, Chatsworth."

"Good morning, Fogg. How do you feel today?"

"Not bad," Fogg said, briefly. After the first few days, in which Fogg's weakness had forced an otherwise unthinkable intimacy between the two men, their relationship had turned distant again. Chatsworth didn't comment on the obvious lie that was Fogg's "not bad".

"I've finished deciphering the documents," Chatsworth said. "It's an excellent source of information on Italy's moves during the next few years."

Fog nodded slowly, clearly aware of all the implications.

"We'll have to do something with Grosz and the rest," he said. His voice was weak, and he paused frequently for breath, but his eyes were cold and alert. "There will be unrest all over the intelligence network, now."

Chatsworth nodded. There was a question in his mind, but he didn't dare ask it. After his return from the dead, this pale wraith that looked like Fogg scared him, with his slow, deliberate return to health and his new dark silences. He feared what he would hear if he'd mention Maddalena.

Fogg sighed and bent his head, leaning tiredly on the rail. His hand grasped his side.

"Fogg, there's something…," Chatsworth began; his mouth was dry. Fogg looked at him, eyes veiled.

"Yes?"

"I didn't… I'm not a field agent. I, I couldn't…," he said, miserably.

Fogg looked to the mist ahead of him. His expression was unreadable.

"I never wanted you to…," Chatsworth began again, and Fogg turned to look at him.

"We have the documents, Chatsworth," he said, dryly. "The rest is for you to figure out on your own."

"I'd like to…," the word _apologize_ stuck in Chatsworth's gullet. He knew he should. He couldn't. Not to this gaunt figure, bearing the scars from his mistakes and looking at him with such stony, misleading calm.

"We'll get to England tomorrow," Chatsworth said, to fill the silence that followed. "I cabled from Minorca, we are expected."

"Excellent," Fogg muttered, and frowned, catching his breath slightly. "I think I'll retire now. Good day, Chatsworth."

"Good day, Fogg."

Fogg didn't ask for Chatsworth's help to go below, and Chatsworth didn't offer it.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Eight

Erasmus paced. He had been doing that for some time now, attracting glances from the people that huddled in the little, stuffy waiting-room of the port master's office. It was night still, dawn being a couple of hours away, and the few traders and sailors that had a reason to be there had been treated to the sight of a young man in good clothes carving a groove in the dirty wooden floor. The port master had assured him that the _Flechette_ was indeed expected this morning and that there was no news of any trouble during the trip. Still, he paced.

He had gotten there as soon as he could, for fear that his father would revoke the reluctant authorization he'd given him to go meet Phileas at port.

He remembered the idle days at Shillingworth, how his initial elation at having nothing to do had turned into restlessness and then into boredom. He went to London to poke his nose a bit into Phileas's affairs, learning upon arrival that he had been sent to Italy. Sir Boniface has been as close as usual with details of the mission, but finally, after days with no news, there came a telegram from Chatsworth —_Chatsworth! What whas that toad doing there with Phileas? And why didn't Phileas cable himself?_— saying that they were coming back by sea, and giving the name and route of the ship. Sir Boniface hadn't liked that, though he didn't explain why.

Erasmus hadn't liked it, either. Too little information, and a sea route was strange and inconvenient. Longer, too. Although apparently the mission had been successful, Erasmus was… well, not _worried_ –he knew Phileas-, but certainly _intrigued_. He'd said he'd go to Liverpool to meet them, and Boniface had said no —at first.

Then he'd said yes.

That was what was worrying Erasmus above everything else. The frown on his father's face when he told him "Maybe you'd better go yourself," while looking at the last telegram. Chatsworth's telegram. Not Phileas's. The sea route, the lack of details, the timing: everything was unusual and vaguely unsettling. Un-Phileas-like.

That was why, when finally the port signals told them that the _Flechette_'s arrival was imminent, Erasmus let out a relieved expletive and went out of the office into the bitter cold of the morning.

It was foggy and bleak outside, a greenish morning with a gusty wind smelling of guano and fish. Erasmus pulled his coat tightly about him and watched the _Flechette_ approach, the lines of the small, sharp hull getting clearer, the muted roar of the captain directing the maneuver. He could see no-one looking idly to port from the bows of the ship, no silhouette he recognized, and so he braced himself and waited.

The ship got moored, the plank lowered, and a ship's boy loaded with two heavy bags ran out of it, bouncing awkwardly on sea-legs on the pier's flagstones to get the dispatches to the post office. Then came some sailors unloading other cargo. Then an officer signing some papers for the port authorities.

Erasmus was about to get into the ship himself in search of Phileas, when a pale figure emerged and walked unsteadily down the plank. It was Chatsworth, looking paler than usual, jowls looser, back bowed. His hand was pressed over his breast pocket, in a protective gesture. Erasmus stood still for a second, digesting the changes in the normally chubby and uptight agent. Then Chatsworth saw him and made a bee-line for him.

"I have the documents," Chatsworth gasped, speaking rapidly and gripping his coat until the fabric wrinkled. "Right here. They're safe, right in here."

"That's nice," said Erasmus, who didn't give a fig about the documents. Movement on the plank tore his gaze from Chatsworth's slightly crazed features and onto the last figure to leave the ship.

It was just another mariner, no, make that an officer, with a bad case of seasickness, and probably the rickets too. Nice clothes, though—

Erasmus started, leapt around Chatsworth, who was still babbling, and ran up the plank to grasp in alarm the shoulders of the limping, yellow-skinned, hollow-cheeked wraith that had the eyes of his brother Phileas.

"Why, Ras," Phileas said, looking half-glad, half-annoyed, and grabbing his arms in a terrifyingly weak embrace, "I didn't think Father would send you." Erasmus gripped him harder; he felt as if Phileas would fall without support, and looked into his ravaged face.

"What the hell happened to you?" he exclaimed, looking over his shoulder at Chatsworth, who stood motionless on the pier, with a forlorn air and the Orsini documents in one hand. Phileas shook his head, gasped, took his arm. Erasmus took the cue and helped his brother walk down the pier in silence.

Erasmus had a quick look at Phileas by the light of the portmaster's office while they waited for the coach, and he felt the hated and familiar fear spreading through his veins as he looked at what was under the bandages. These were bad wounds, on a body that was not dealing too well with them.

"Tell me what happened," he asked, delicately readjusting the bandages.

"I made a couple of mistakes," Phileas said, lightly. His voice was weak, but clear, and Erasmus didn't miss the quick glance at Chatsworth, nor the hard light that lit up the red-rimmed eyes.

"You, or Father?" he muttered, making a show of buttoning up Phileas's coat so that his eyes would not betray him. He felt his brother's gaze tear a hole in his scalp.

"Later," Phileas said. Erasmus nodded.

It was later now, in the coach galloping to London while the morning turned pearly grey, yet the silence had not been broken. Phileas had his eyes closed and looked asleep, propped against the window, but the lines of his neck were taut and his lips thinned from time to time. Chatsworth looked in shock, staring ahead with a vacant expression. The documents were in Erasmus's pocket now, but Chatsworth's hand still gripped empty air.

It was an uncomfortable trip, and when they arrived Phileas had a fever. Even then, he got off the coach by himself, and Erasmus didn't miss that, when he touched Chatsworth's arm accidentally, both men recoiled as if burned.

But only Chatsworth was left trembling.

Erasmus was adamant and Phileas relented finally, letting himself be whisked away to his Reform Club's room in Pall Mall, where Evans, the footman, showed absolutely no surprise at the arrival of one of his most distinguished guests in such a sorry state. Truth to tell, Evans wouldn't have shown surprise if Fogg had sprouted wings and fluttered about the hall, although he'd have clicked his tongue at the lack of manners. Now he simply brought hot water, a change of clothes, and some light refreshment, and left in silence with instructions to show the pasty gentleman, Chatsworth by name, to the Stranger's Room, offer him a stiff drink, and keep him quiet and out of sight of the other members. Which Evans was only too happy to do.

"This will leave a scar", Erasmus said, washing the cut by Phileas's eye.

"I don't care."

"Was it a stiletto? Sharp blade, anyway."

"It was."

"I hope you got him."

"I will."

Was that regret in Phileas's voice? Erasmus didn't press the point, and helped his brother to dress, flinching twice for each of Phileas's flinches.

"Tell me what happened," he said, finally. Phileas's condition, his weakness, his new scars, unsettled him. He wanted to break something. Or someone.

"It would take too long," Phileas said, wearily.

"Don't give me that rot. You always could summarize. Father gushes over your summaries. You'd turn the Bible into a limerick if they let you."

Phileas sat down, gingerly, leaving his collar undone (Erasmus frowned at that), and looked ahead with an empty expression.

"What did Chatsworth do?," Erasmus asked softly, when the silence stretched out. The nature of Phileas's injuries was horribly informative. So was Chatsworth's lack of injuries. At the mention of that name, Phileas's expression went taut and cold; his lips pressed together as if clamping down words he didn't want to say.

"Not enough," he said, and when he looked at Erasmus's deepening frown, he smiled thinly. "It's all right, Ras. It really is. We got the documents, we're both back. There, you have your summary."

"If he hurt you…"

"He didn't hurt anyone. Directly," Phileas said. "We got to know each other a little bit better."

The way he said it, it sounded like an epitaph. Erasmus looked at the fading bruise in Phileas's cheekbone, the curved, small wound by his eye, the ice in the green eyes, with the memories roiling behind them, and shuddered when he realized how close he'd been to losing his brother.


	10. Chapter 10

Epilogue

The silence in the office was broken only by the hollow tick tock of the antique clock, and a rustling of pages from time to time. Through the window came the faint patter of rain on cobblestones, and the rattle of the occasional carriage.

A soft knock on the door made the old man at the desk look up.

"Come in," he said, carefully setting the papers he'd been reading face-down on the table. The door opened; a middle-aged man dressed in black stood respectfully on the threshold.

"Yes, Phelps," Sir Boniface said.

"Agent Fogg to see you, sir."

"Show him in."

The secretary stood aside, holding the door open. A tall, gaunt figure walked slowly in, and the door closed softly behind him.

Sir Boniface stood up, but a moment passed before he spoke. When he did, his voice sounded a bit strained.

"Phileas. Welcome back," he said, stiffly, and went to his eldest son. He reached out his hand, not to shake his son's, but to touch his arm gingerly, in a sketch of an embrace. "Won't you… Would you like to sit down?"

"I'm fine, sir," Phileas said.

"I seem to remember Erasmus mentioned you were hurt," Sir Boniface said, causing great injury to the truth. Erasmus had described, forcefully and in great detail, the nature and severity of Phileas's injuries, and had made his father promise that he wouldn't keep Phileas from his recovery more than what was strictly necessary. "Do sit down, Phileas, I insist."

Phileas complied, lowering himself with great care on a hard chair. He produced a fat envelope from a pocket and handed it to his father. Sir Boniface took it, but his gaze was still trained upon Phileas's bruised and cut face.

"My report, sir," Phileas said, looking uncomfortable. "I understand that Chatsworth already brought you the Orsini documents."

"Yes," Sir Boniface harrumphed, fumbled a bit with the envelope in an uncharasteristic gesture, and retreated behind his desk. Once he sat down again he seemed more at ease. "Yes, he did. Along with his report. I found it an intriguing read. I trust yours will bring more light on some of the events he described."

"I trust it will, sir."

"He seems a bit undone. Is there any reason you'd care to mention for that?"

"There was… a certain amount of danger," Phileas said, carefully. Sir Boniface wasn't fooled by evasions.

"Would you say that Chatsworth did honor to the Service, Phileas?"

A long pause followed.

"He showed remarkable ingenuity in the forging of the documents," Phileas said, eventually, looking down. "And he was able to take us both out of Turin, while I was incapacitated. It's all in my report. Sir."

Another pause.

"Very well. I will read it immediately. But before that, I'd like your opinion on a couple of points."

Phileas raised his head to meet his father's gaze, and Sir Boniface started a little. There was a very clear, very urgent warning in those piercing eyes. It was a look Sir Boniface had seen once too many in field agents, when they came back from a mission, their minds and bodies hanging by a thread, holding just a little bit further until they could curl up in a dark corner and forget the world. Agents with that look had destroyed themselves slowly, over the years, through drink or laudanum or gambling.

Phileas, who had never, ever, asked for a respite, or a favor, who would die before let a complaint leave his lips, was begging his father and boss now, mutely, to let him stop being an agent. To let him be simply a man in pain, a son in need. The realization shocked Sir Boniface, although he never showed it.

_Have I destroyed my son?_ He asked himself in sudden dread, looking at the exhausted face, the evidence of pain suppressed, and, worse, the memories lurking behind Phileas's eyes.

"Nothing that cannot wait, however," Sir Boniface said, gruffly. "You are in need of rest. Take a leave of absence, if you wish. Erasmus said before that he'd like to go back to Shillingworth Magna; you could go with him."

"If you wish me to stay…"

"No," Sir Boniface's voice was back to his dry, commanding tone. "You'd better recover your strength. I may go to the manor in a few days, there will be ample time to talk then."

"Thank you, sir," Phileas said, starting to rise. His breath caught in his throat and he had to lean for a moment on the chair's back. In his mind's eye, Sir Boniface saw himself going to his wounded son, his wonderful, beloved, beautiful son, supporting him, holding him, easing his pain with a caress and a murmured word, telling him how much he loved him. How brave and magnificent he was, much more so than his old, spent father. How proud he was of him and his younger brother.

He sat at his desk and pretended not to see anything, not to feel anything. Phileas left, and for a long, long while, there was silence in the room.

Then the pen started scratching again.

"I'll be away for a few days, Phelps," Phileas said to the secretary while the latter helped him with his hat and coat.

"Very well, sir. Your brother awaits downstairs with a hansom."

"Excellent. Tell my father he can reach me at Shillingworth if there's the need."

"I shall tell him, sir. May I wish you a pleasant stay?"

"Thank you, Phelps."

The door opened. Phelps recoiled instinctively when Phileas's body tensed as if an enemy was in the room, but it was only Chatsworth, dressed in a new suit, looking plump and smug. The secretary had seen many things in Sir Boniface's office, but he reckoned he never had seen someone's face go from pink to yellow at such speed.

"Fogg," croaked Chatsworth.

"Chatsworth," hissed Fogg. It sounded like a hiss. It was probably a whisper, Phelps told himself, and found that he had taken cover behind his small desk.

"I… Did you… Are you leaving?"

"For a while."

"I'll… see you when you come back, then."

"You will."

Chatsworth did a little hesitant dance, and then offered his hand, in a jerky movement. Fogg looked at the hand for a long, long instant.

Then he muttered something under his breath, tipped his hat ever so slightly, and left.

Chatsworth turned beet red and fled to Sir Boniface's office. It was the first time Phelps had seen someone actually longing to be in the same room with the old turtle. And he didn't know why the rush; after all, Fogg only had said something in Latin.

It had sounded like "Noli me tangere".

_**The End**_


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